From darkness, Sansa was sobbing uncontrollably, struggled attempts at breathing rattling her insides, her lungs close to bursting… It hurts, it all hurts so terribly. She had dug her nails deep into her mattress, that sensation the only thing that let her know where she was. I am going to die, she thought, over and over, I am going to die, and then, No, no, I want to die, but he will make me live, he will make sure I live. Her eyes were shut tight, she realized, and someone was speaking to her… hands gripped her shoulders and she screamed. Through her screams and through the fog, she heard him speak.

"Little bird, seven hells! It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

The Hound… Sandor is with me. Her scream gave way to a long, low howl of anguish. She unclenched her fists long enough to wrap her arms around his neck, her nails digging into his nightshirt, and she hid her face in his chest. Almost silent now, her cries came in short bursts as she taught herself to breathe again. A candelabra sat on her bedside table, one Sandor must have been using in his room. Sansa thought it was the same candelabra that Arya had thrown at her once in one of her fits; She still had a tiny scar on top of her left foot from it. Will anyone ever stop haunting me?

"What happened, girl? What is it?"

Sandor did not press her when she did not respond. She felt as if a century had passed before she found it in her to lift her head and speak. "Littlefinger," she whispered, his name ending with a childish sniff of a sob she did not expect. She felt her face blush with shame. How foolish she was, to cling to this man she had no reason to trust, to fear a man dead by her own hand.

"Littlefinger?"

"I… I dreamed of him, it was only a dream, it must only have been a dream, but… but…"

"…it felt real."

"Yes."

She began to cry again. Sansa pulled away from him and wrapped her arms around herself. Gently, Sandor brushed her hair back and pushed her over. "Just lie down. There you are."

The softness of the pillows beneath her head was welcome and she realized how exhausted she was from the dream. "Would you lie with me?"

The weight of his body on the bed was her answer.

He turned on his side, mirroring her. "What do you dream of, Little bird?"

Firelight danced across his face. Sansa looked down, at the profiled shadow of their faces, so close together, and she decided to trust him. Or at least I could pretend to trust…

"Petyr Baelish gave me many gifts. But they came at a price." Sansa heard the voice leave her body, the cold one, the one that always surprised her, the one she had developed over years of not knowing who she was or what she should feel.

"He is dead now. I had him executed. I did not swing the sword, but I looked him in the eye as he screamed my name… or…" Sansa felt the flutter come back in her chest and the cry crawl up her throat, but she steeled herself. "Alayne. He called me Alayne. Alayne, my sweet girl. His final words."

She had hoped he would say something, anything, to stop her from speaking. He only listened. His silence was warm and comforting. She let herself sink into it. "He would not take my maidenhead, no… We needed that. But he did say that I had to learn to keep a man's affections, especially a man like Harrold Hardyng, renowned debaucher. And I believed him…"

Anger grew inside of her, almost overwhelmed her. It is frightening, and yet... Sansa had a strange love for moments like these; the confused cacophony of affection, pity, and guilt that surrounded Petyr Baelish in her mind was deafening, exhausting. How rich it was when the fierce symphony of anger could drown it out! Warm tears ran down her face, but she did not care.

"I had no choice but to believe him. I had seen the way Robert Baratheon behaved. I had seen what it did to Cersei, Cersei who must not have been unlike me once… And I heard a voice in the back of my head, in the back of Alayne's head, the voice of Sansa Stark. It is not honorable… but who had ever lived to speak of how honorable they were? It is not what I wanted… but when had Sansa Stark ever gotten what she wanted," Sansa was close to snarling and felt like spitting. "Only once, only once, and that... was... Joffrey… and Alayne was a bastard, I was a bastard, baseborn, so my wants meant naught."

Sansa was shaking now. Rage and disgust made a hollow thing of her stomach and she bit her lip until it bled. "And so I dream of him. Of the times when I was so disgusted with it that he had to hold me down. Of the times when I was so accustomed to it I felt nothing at all. Of the times when I approached it like a scholar, like it was a lesson being taught to me by Septa Mordane long ago in Winterfell and I just wanted to do the best, to make my teacher proud…"

Curling into herself, she closed her eyes tight, but the tears continued to fall. She felt Sandor's hand squeeze one of hers tight. That made it worse. She began to sob.

"I don't…" She was choking on her own tears. "I don't want you to think…"

He pulled her to him, wrapping an arm around her, cautiously.

"I don't want you to think that… oh gods! I am a horrid thing."

"Nonsense. You're a beautiful thing. And you forgave me. And I'm the worst of anyone here."

Sansa tried to catch her breath, tried to pull herself back from the dark place, to feel again. She was eventually aware of the weight of his arms around her and she felt real again. Broken, worn, and used, but real.

"I do not know which is worse, Sandor… That sometimes I let him call me Cat… or that sometimes… sometimes I even enjoyed it."

Sansa cried so hard that she ceased to make a sound. Her face was buried in his neck, his hand buried in her hair, the other rubbing her back, and like this, she fell asleep.

:::

"You have men to fight and die for you."

"I know this, Harry."

"Then why do this?"

"The Stark women have a history of wielding swords an-

"And a history of getting themselves in trouble. I know that is not the reason."

"I would feel safer if I thought I might stand a chance on my own, that is all. And I believe the time will come when I must swing the sword myself and it will come soon. The Tyrells escaped with Margaery safe, with Jaime held captive, but Cersei did not lose. And what if some of Stannis' men meant to take me in the night?"

"I wouldn't let that happen."

"You would not like it to happen, Harry, but you are not all knowing. It could happen."

Harry scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"This is bigger than me. Or you. Or him. We will need to start training everyone. Now that Winterfell is, in the basest sense, rebuilt, and now that they have food in their bellies and warm fires to sleep beside, the real fighting begins. We will not be able to sit here forever. You will be captain of my guards, if you can stop being pig headed long enough to make me guards," Sansa said, giving him a smile.

"Sansa… me? I… I will not let you down."

"Oh, I know," Sansa smiled. She was gladdened to see Harry was so touched, though she could not read his face exactly. There was something deeper than honor there. Does he still not know how much I value him? "Please, do not feel so moved. I am about to anger you. I mean to name Sandor my sworn shield…"

"Oh, truly, you cannot be serio-"

"AND." Sansa waited for Harry to stop swearing and start listening. "…and… I think it best that my sworn shield know what he is doing. The Hound was a fearsome warrior, a ruthless killer. The Hound's arm was not nearly hacked off and he did not have a chunk missing from one of his thighs. The Hound was almost an entirely separate person from the man Sandor Clegane who now lives here with us. He has not told me all of his time on the Quiet Isle, but I do know there were no swords there. He needs to regain his strength."

Harry moved to speak, then stopped himself, throwing one hand up in defeat, the other brushing through his sandy curls before landing on his hip. "Very well. I will assist Sandor Clegane… THE HOUND… A CLEGANE… A MAN WHO WAS SWORN TO LANNISTERS," Harry shouted histrionically, then, seeing the look on Sansa's face, one hand returned to his hip, and the other rubbed his forehead, eyes closed. "Yes, right, I'll help him help you. Together, we will teach you to wield a bloody sword."

"Thank you."

"Oh, you're welcome, your Grace, I am at your bidding," Harry said in melodramatic mockery.

Sansa laughed, "Harry… I know you do not trust him, but trust me. Trust me. As I trust you."

"You trust me?"

"Yes. I do."

He smiled then. "I am glad of it."

"You have earned it." Sansa crossed and hugged him. Harry lazily threw an arm around her shoulders.

"I am moved by my queen's affections, I really am, but I have things to do. Important things. I am the captain of the guard, you know!"

"Alright… Go away."

:::

Sansa awoke, sore and still exhausted. She reached for the goblet of water she kept at her bedside and winced; A dull and heavy ache took grip of her shoulders and yawned hot through her breasts and down to her forearms. The cold water filled her mouth and quenched her thirst, yet still the movement required did not seem worth the pain. It was too taxing to cross to her window, but Sansa noted that no light yet seeped under her curtains. She eased herself back down onto her pillows and tried to return to her dreams, but the previous day's event filled her head.

She had stood in the yard with Sandor at her side, feeling quite foolish. She realized she could not properly learn anything in her gowns, so she had donned a pair of Harry's breeches. They were unpleasantly snug on the hips and she did not feel so comfortable in them as she did in her own clothes. Sandor had given her a smirk when she first joined him in the yard, but when she questioned it, he would say nothing. Harry approached them from the smith. He tossed one at Sansa and it clattered at her feet.

"Right, you were supposed to catch that." He turned to Sandor, "I figured you were happy to keep using the sword they found you with, tarnished as it is."

"I am a man of sentiment."

Sansa picked her sword up off of the ground. It was a simple thing, but lovely. The handle was knobbed and her fingers gripped easily around it's shape. Along the blade, it was engraved: Lady. Reading that, she sighed, and looked up to find Harry giving her a playful grin.

"Lady?"

"I thought you might like that. Good sword needs a good name. How does it feel?"

"I... I expected it to be heavier."

Harry laughed, "Yes. I made this with you in mind. Best not get arrogant and go grabbing this gentleman's weapon," he had tapped Sandor's sword with his own, to which Sandor had given a small, disapproving snort. "You may very well dislocate your shoulder... Now."

He jumped back. And there, her lessons had begun.

Sansa rolled onto her side and looked at her sword, snug in its sheath, mounted on the wall. She did not realize she was smiling until her cheeks ached. There was a safety in knowing how to wield a sword, however badly. She could not help but think that Arya would have been proud of her. Childishly, Sansa let herself imagine her father's smile, the love-addled grin that he usually reserved for some antic of Arya's, or some prank of her older brothers, Jon and Robb, even Theon, a smile he gave when he should have given reproach, a smile he never gave to her. The ache of Eddard Stark was a different ache from her fresher wounds. It was the first blow to her innocence; Sansa did not understand pain then. The tragedies that followed almost made sense to her, the grief felt like an old friend. The loss of her father did not hold the context of war and vengeance and stolen life the way the other strikes against her did. She simply missed him.

The Queen in the North did not have time to ache, physically, emotionally, on any level at all. Here in her bed, soft and warm, lined with pillows and fur, she was only Sansa Stark. And for today, she would let herself be just that. The room she slept in was the one she slept in as a girl. She had shared it with Arya until she was ten. Robb would sometimes sit with them and hold their hands while Old Nan told them scary stories, and later, when Bran was little and daring and scared by Old Nan's latest tale (which he undoubtedly had begged for), he would come into Sansa's room and she would cuddle him to sleep, sometimes Rickon, too. Her mother would brush her hair here, every single night. Through all that had happened, nothing had tarnished how very at home she felt in this room. The window closest to her bed looked out what remained of the kennels. Sansa hoped that one day she could tear down the barricade and build it proper again, fill it with pups. The barking of dogs had felt like home long before she loved the howl of her wolf. Sleep had almost taken her once more, but again, yesterday came creeping in.

Sansa.

He had said her name, after knocking her to the ground. Harry had told them to now turn on one another. She told Sandor over and over not to go easy on her. He started to listen; She started to fall. Sandor grabbed her wrist and tried to steady her, but in juggling her, the weight of the sword became too much for his newly healed shoulder. He threw it down, but began to fall himself. All that was left was for him to shift his weight so that he landed first and broke Sansa's fall. The collision had been hard. Sansa felt her lip split and well up, eyes shut tight.. She placed her hands on the ground and pushed herself to rest on her wrists. A pain pulsed through her head. When she opened her eyes, Sandor Clegane was looking into them. She tried to brush her hair back as he asked, "Did I hurt you?"

"You broke my fall. Did I hurt you?"

He had not answered. He had only tucked the loose strands of her hair behind her ear and brushed the blood from her lip with his thumb. Had his thumb brushed over her lip once more and then lingered a moment? Or did she only imagine that now? She had closed her eyes again as his hand came to grasp her chin. The blood pulsed back into her ears when Harry pulled her off of Sandor, leaving him on the cold ground.

Sansa rolled onto her back, returning to the memory of his thumb on her lip, his hand holding her chin. She could easily have lost herself in it, the way she had felt so very close to him. In fact, she tried to play the memory over and over in her mind, to let it grow, to give herself over to delusion the way she used to, just for now, just for today, just until she could ease back into sleep, but the look on Harry's face when he had walked her to Sam's chambers so that he might tend to her welts and bruises made it hard to enjoy any of it. He had not said a word, unusual for him, but she had sensed his anger. But why?

The queen in the north left her bed and got dressed. She had to decide what to do with the Tyrells, what was to be done if Stannis refused her offer of peace, yet again. She had to think of marriage and of war. She did not have time to think on Sandor or on Harry. She had to let the girl die and let the woman, the queen be born.

:::

Sansa had spent the night in the Godswood, praying to the Old Gods, the gods she envisioned with her father's face. It had become clear long ago that she would never have the family she dreamed of as a girl, only she did not realize she still held hope. What did she hope for? She could not say. Perhaps she hoped the gods might tell her to follow her heart. Perhaps she wanted them to strike her fancies down, once and for all. They did neither; The cold wind blew, the leaves rustled, her heart continued breaking. Standing, she placed a hand on the face of the heart tree, along the brow. It seemed worn and tired. It seemed to want comfort. Was the heart tree young once? Young like I was? A chill ran through her and the wind seemed to whisper, yes, yes, long ago. She turned and caught her reflection in the dark pool at her feet. The red wolf, she laughed to herself. Why, I look only a woman. A rustling to her right: an unkindness of ravens had landed on the branches, she found the disparity of their black bodies against the vibrant red of the heart tree and the comforting whiteness of the snow unsettling. Dark wings, dark words. She did not lift her skirts as she left the godswood. Sansa was already covered with snow and she thought it fitting. The queen of winter, with snowflakes in her auburn hair...

Resigning the foreboding gifted by the ravens to the back of her mind, Sansa walked to the glass gardens. Sam had made certain that they were repaired and that planting began immediately (the glass gardens would be expanded soon, larger than they ever were before). It comforted her to see blooms, not only of food, but of the roses and peonies Sam had planted simply to make her happy. She had thought it foolish at the time, but it did lift her spirits. Her glad sigh left a sheet of fog as she pressed her hand to the cold glass and blurred a blue rose from her sight.. Before she could wipe it all away, something else caught her eye: Sam. He was walking towards her from his quarters, through the remnants of the kennels (she had seen no point in rebuilding them; the dogs had joined the wild wolves or else been eaten by them long before she came home), stirring up long settled ashes as he came. The cheer that was custom for Sam was nowhere on his face. A bit of parchment was in his hands. Sansa knew that this was why the unkindness had come to her. The Old Gods had spoken after all. I was only too foolish to hear it.

Sometime later she stood in her father's solar (my solar, I must remember, it is my solar now), reading Stannis' words.

To the Lady Lannister,

I had hoped my disregard for your previous letters might communicate my stance well enough, but I see there was no hope for that. Women know nothing of war. You proved this much by sending a traitor to me. Had he not come under flag of peace, I would have given Torghen Flint to the Lord of the Light. I am a just man and would have honored your brother Rickon's claim to Winterfell, but you saw fit to seek power for yourself and you reach too high. The Iron Throne is mine by rights. I mean to take it or to die trying. I will not rule over a split kingdom to appease the wants of a broken woman. The admiration of the people will soon wane. They are chasing the ghost of Eddard Stark. The people love you no more than they love me. The Barrowlands are mine, as is the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. I do not care for the reasons of your refusal to acknowledge me, or for your excuses, or for your sentimentalities. Words are wind, Lady Lannister.

Stannis Baratheon, the First of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhonar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Lord of These Seven Kingdoms

With a scoff, Sansa flung the letter on the table.

"Did you read this, Flint?"

"Not much for readin', Little Ned,,. but I was in the room as he... what is the word? Dictated it."

"Very well. Sam, read it."

Sam looked at Sansa with questioning eyes, but picked the parchment up all the same and began to read. Sansa thought she could feel his inner monologue begin to stammer. She turned to look out of the window, pressing her face to the icy window pane. Her brain was humming. She closed her eyes and wondered if her father had ever lain his head against this very window comfort, and felt a rain of sorrow wash over her as she realized Robb never did. As she waited for Sam to read, she began to giggle, and then to chortle.

"Sansa... ehm... your grace?"

"Yes, Sam," she said, one hand bracing the window, the other clutching her side, trying to calm her laughter.

"I've read it now."

"Good, good, Sam." She covered her mouth as she turned to face them. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and calmed herself. "And what do we think?"

"I... I don't... I wish he would have accepted the peace terms."

"Yes."

"I... I don't know what else to say, Sansa."

A smile spread across Sansa's face. It was bitter and broken and bright.

Torghen Flint spoke up, "I got a thought or two, if the queen'll hear it."

Sansa leaned against the window ledge, gripping it with her hands. She gave him a nod, "Please."

"You look done with this Stannis."

Sansa nodded, crossing her arms..

"He has no men. And the few he does have, they're good as dead. He's a fool and he's in your way."

"Yes."

"This is war. Go make war."

Sansa had nothing to say to that. When she had sacked the Freys at the Twins while her Uncle Brynden took back Riverrun from Freys and Lannisters, her conscience had had no objection. They had wronged her family, undoubtedly. They had gone above and beyond the usual griefs of war and violated all manner of courtesy and decency. Stannis Baratheon never harmed a Stark. Sansa bit her lip. That is the girl speaking, she told herself. He would harm a Stark. He will.

"Sam... could you find Harry for me?"

"Of course."

As he headed for the door, she called after him. "And Sam... Sandor, too."

"Yes. I'll get them both." He closed the door behind him.

She paced for a few moments, as Torghen Flint sat, looking not at her, but at the stone cold floor, his large hands wrapped around the head of his cane. Finally, she stood her ground and turned to face him. Clearing her throat, she smoothed out the front of her dress before dropping her arms to her sides, her thumbs wrapped inside her fist, the blood to them cut off by her own irritated grip. Her shoulders back, she raised her head.

"I have not marched on Stannis because I had hoped for peace. I had hoped for peace because I have seen enough people die to last me a lifetime."

"Yes," the Flint nodded.

"If I do not move, Stannis will not think of this will he?"

"I would bet not. Bet he thinks you weak. Bet he thinks you know you're a usurper."

"I am no usurper!"

"I didn't say you were."

"The North needs me. Me! Not Stannis Baratheon, his claim, his right be damned," Sansa was shaking now. She wanted to pace again, but she made herself stay put, braced herself. "The North does not love Stannis, look what it has done to him. His men-"

"His men are few and far between."

"...they are cold and hungry."

"They are dying."

"And why? For Stannis' pride? I would save them. I would feed them all, I would keep them warm, even Stannis, who has caused me so much strife. There is no room for pride in winter!"

"And you know of winter? You ready for winter, Little Ned? You, barely grown?"

"Winter is in my bones. I am more than a daughter of the north, I am more than a lady of Winterfell. I am winter. I should have died long ago! Many thought I had! But all along, I was there... in the lion's den... under Alayne... I was Sansa Stark! The blood of Winterfell is in my veins. I am the daughter of Eddard Stark, descended from the first men! But I am my mother's daughter, too! A river runs through me!"

"You are Tully painted, that's so, but your heart... your heart is all direwolf. That's what the people need. That's what you have to make sure they know."

"I am...," Sansa laughed a free laugh, tears spilling from her eyes. "I am wolf hearted. I am a she-wolf, the red-wolf, their red-wolf," she said, pointing out, towards the great hall, towards the guest houses, where the smallfolk had taken shelter. "Who will care for the North if not me? They forget... Torghen, they forget... I was born in winter. I am the one and only direwolf born to winter. And it does not matter how many times I dream of spring, I am destined... destined... for winter."

Sam had returned and now entered the solar, Harry and Sandor behind him. She looked over them all, then back to Torghen. "I am done with him."

"Then end it, Little Ned. If't could be done, I'd march on him me self. And be glad to."

She looked to Harry then. "Master at arms," she said, her voice booming with life she did not know she had.

"Your grace," he said, a queer look in his eye, seeming to Sansa astonishment mixed with something else she could not name.

"When can my men be ready? I have a war to fight and I mean to fight it soon."

"The Barrowlands? Sansa... your grace... Stannis?"

"Yes. Stannis."

"How... how many men do you ne-"

"Not many," the Flint said, matter-of-factly.

"Is a fortnight enough time?" Sansa asked.

"I think so."

"I need you to know, Harry."

"Yes. Yes, it's enough time."

"Good, you're dismissed. Sam."

"Yes?"

"Send a raven telling the Tyrells I plan to continue my attempts at peace with Stannis and that I have Mormont allies who plan to cover them by sea. See to it that the raven drops it. Send archers to follow close behind, do whatever it is you do with those birds, make it happen. In three days time, send a letter asking the Tyrells to hurry their response, so that I might solidify a marriage. Make sure it is similarly dropped. A week from now you're to send the real letter. The Tyrells are to meet me at the Twins once I've taken back the Barrowlands. If they found Edmure, we will ride back to Winterfell together and further discuss our alliance and my betrothal. If not, well... there will be other matters to discuss."

Sam and Harry both looked at her, wide eyed.

"Am I not your queen?"

Both men let loose stammers of "yes, ehm.." and "of course, your grace, of course..."

Sansa gave them a smile, "Very well then. You've royal business to attend to. Go." She turned now to Torghen, who had begun walking towards her, making good strides for an old man with a cane. "Flint."

"Little Ned."

"I know that the mountain clans have never cared for the practices or politics of court. You have my deep gratitude for leading your people to me, for helping me to reclaim Winterfell. I do not expect you or your men to risk their lives again. You have shelter within the walls of Winterfell as long as you want or need it. I only ask that you all continue to rebuild the castle and to keep it safe. I will not ask you to leave it and fight my war."

"I liked your father."

"Yes. But Flint... I am not my father."

"No. But you're smarter," he said as he placed a great, gnarled hand on her upper arm and gave her a kind rub. "Prettier, too. You lived. You made it. You've a good heart and you serve your people. And I'll fight for you."

Sansa was alone in the solar but for the whispering wind, the high sun's light, and Sandor Clegane. She had closed the door behind the Flint and so there was little space between them.

"The North will be yours."

"Yes." She looked up at him.

"The South, too, it seems. By your husband, if not else."

"I suppose that is true."

"You'll have it all." He stepped away from her, crossing to look out of the window. His broad frame almost blocked it entirely from view. The sunlight shone straight upon him and his shadow spread across the length of the solar. Sansa was lost in his silhouette. The golden light could not touch her and only then did she realize how stifling the heat from the rays had been.

"I did not want it all," she said, missing the comfort that came with reading his grey eyes, the twitch of his mouth, the tension in his brow.

"No?"

"No."

He continued to stare out onto the grounds. Sansa watched him, saw his head drop down and his shoulders slump, his hand pressed to the glass. She move to stand at his side. He jerked away from her when she placed a hand on the middle of his back. Embarrassed, hurt, she pulled her hand back, intertwining it with the other in front of her.

"You sent for me?"

"I did," she said, almost whispering, angry with him for pulling away, for so swiftly rejecting her comfort. It felt like a punishment.

"And how may I serve your grace?"

Angry tears touched at the back of Sansa's eyes at the tone. "However I see fit, Clegane. I am your Queen."

"I bloody well know that."

"Then watch your tone!" She turned from him, but before she could storm away, she felt his hand, not ungently, grasp her wrist.

"How may I serve you," he asked, softly this time, sighing.

She turned to face him, doing her best to make her Tully blue eyes turn to steel so she might cut him with her gaze.

Sandor looked down at the ground and slid his hand from her wrist to clasp her fingers, his thumb rubbing gently over her knuckles for a moment (or did she imagine that?) before letting the limb drop. Her glare did not leave him and she found herself further frustrated when he did not swell and rage at her. She needed him to hurt her again so she could justify the great wound his slight had made inside of her. The blush was running to her cheeks and her lips threatened to quiver. More than anything she wanted to leave, but she found herself fixed to the spot.

"Sansa..."

"What is it?"

"Are you sure you want to marry some Tyrell or other?"

"What I want?"

"Aye, what you want, girl. I wouldn't leap to give it up were I you."

"I have no choice."

"All right."

"All right?"

"All right."

"What does that mean?"

"It seems to me, your grace, that you finally do have a choice. I'd rather you not piss it away on another betrothal that makes me sick to my stomach."

"Oh... very well, this is about you?"

"It's about you, girl, don't be foolish."

"This... marriage is the very inverse of foolishness. I wish I could be foolish."

"Go be foolish. You're the queen."

"It does not work that way."

He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her in close, their torsos now touching. He leaned in close, so close she thought that maybe he would kiss her. But instead he spoke, "Make sure he's worthy, girl. I won't stand and watch this time if he isn't."

Sansa's heart was racing and the sincerity she saw in his eyes stirred a queer sort of life in the place that moments before he had made empty. She found herself reaching her hands out and placing them on his chest. This time, he was unflinching. Everything in her told her to lose his gaze, told her she was in danger. She could not listen. "What will you do?"

"I'll kill him." Sandor Clegane made to leave.

"I did send for you," she called after him.

He stopped, nodding, "That you did."

"I need you to get stronger."

"Stronger?"

"Yes. You'll need to be much stronger to be my sworn shield."

:::